


elsewhere

by andstarswillscream



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Canon Divergence - The Transformers: Last Stand of the Wreckers, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Fix-It, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-07-05
Packaged: 2018-11-28 09:04:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11414649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andstarswillscream/pseuds/andstarswillscream
Summary: He’d survived. Through some twisted god’s will, he’d survived. He’d been left, the room in burnt, shattered pieces. A lingering sense of intense horror. There was a charred, crumbling mess where Overlord had laid, his final moments.





	elsewhere

**Author's Note:**

> i just, want them to be happy okay

**I**

He’d survived. Through some twisted god’s will, he’d survived. He’d been left, the room in burnt, shattered pieces. A lingering sense of intense horror. There was a charred, crumbling mess where Overlord had laid, his final moments.

As if held together by some sick, intangible power, Snare remained. He’d been forgotten it seemed, face—helm, nearly blown to bits. Brain module horrifically exposed. Helpless. Impactor had not even obeyed his request, his last dying wish, but he supposed that no longer mattered. There were more last wishes to be had, it seemed. He’d (thankfully? unfortunately?) passed out as Overlord entered the room, all he could remember was this intense sense of foreboding, before it all went dark. And now, he was alive, with nothing. The great monster broiled alive, the prison in shambles.

Somewhere, Snare found it in him to stand, unsteady. He held desperately on to the remnants of Skyquake’s battle mask, fishing them out from his subspace, the only thing that grounded him anymore. In his other hand, he used— augh, was that Overlord’s? — amor plating to keep his sluggish frame upright. Something from the phase sixer’s arm. Whatever works.

The bastard wasn’t just Megatron's pawn, after all. The humour was not lost on Snare, even in his current fugue. He trekked onward, stopping only to retrieve his own mask, adjusting it back onto his face. At least that felt right. A start, he supposed. Collecting himself, both figuratively, and literally, before figuring out his next move.

Somehow, he’d found a ship. Broken and falling apart, but a ship. Even if it just got him off this planet… it would be enough. He could fly, as far as he could. He only just needed to leave. His plating crawled along his protoform just knowing he’d already stayed much, much longer than he ever should have. 

Siphoning energon from bodies was not new to him. It was how he’d survived, primarily, on this hellish rock. Shaking memories from his frame, in a futile attempt to cleanse what was left of his conscience, he set to work, refuelling as much as he could, and then fuelling the ship itself. He dragged a few more bodies on board, a few autobots, a decepticon he couldn’t be bothered to remember the name of. Energon was energon, when you needed to live. 

And Snare wasn’t going to wait until someone swept by this hellhole in the hopes of rescue.

Commandeering the ship was more problematic than he’d liked. The controls were finicky, even after takeoff. He supposed he’d have to adjust them, if they were bad enough. So far, he figured he was doing well. They were still moving, so that was progress. 

Once the ship really got moving, he didn’t dare look back. He didn't want to, either.

**II**

Snare reached an outpost, after what seemed like another four million years. He’d already gouged out the decepticon sigils, hoping no one recognized him, or got too curious. He restocked on supplies, energon, a gun. Ammo. He got fresh paint, to cover the gouges in his wings. It would do.

It had to.

**III**

Snare was still using that piece of plating to balance himself. Something in his brain had been knocked off kilter, and balance continued to be an issue. He pawned it off at the next stop for a cane, one that had a concealed blade.

He’d probably never fly properly again. He hadn’t dared to try yet, his whole body still aching horribly. It was a familiar ache, at this point. It was probably the only thing keeping him sane, he reckoned. If he focused on how much his body hurt, his mind wouldn’t drift too far, to places where he couldn’t follow, even if he wanted to.

The ship was still holding up, much better than he thought it would, so Snare was certainly not about to complain, let alone abandon it. He stopped at various outposts, not really concealing his identity so much as ignoring it. He wanted nothing more two do with the Decepticons and their stupid war. If he ever saw an Autobot again, it would be too soon.

So avoid it, he did, drifting along and… collecting items. Buying, sometimes stealing. Dipping into abandoned ships and carefully looting them. If whoever owned it was dead, was it really stealing?

Some ships weren’t so abandoned, bodies littering the floors-- plenty of energon to siphon. Still, a sort of dread hung about his frame, weighing him down, more than his issues with steadiness, and his newly eternal fight with the force of gravity itself. When he was an active participant in the war, it seemed the devastation wasn’t so…. Stark.

But being a scavenger? Moving from wreckage to wreckage, looking for anything he could pawn off, anything useful? Seeing the bodies, stark and grey and oozing… the effect of the war, of actions he himself had taken, hung low and heavy in the atmosphere, threatening to clog his vents.

Snare skipped refuelling that night.


End file.
